


Into The Fire

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Memory Loss, Post-Season/Series 03, References to Torture, Slightly slow burn, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day Moriarty asks 'did you miss me?' Greg and Sherlock embark on a three-day trek to Portsmouth to find a way to both escape and draw him away from London. It's the most time they've ever spent together since they first met, and the journey proves to be about far more than just their mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Norwood Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this happened because I was stuck on a chapter of Constantinople Falls and needed to write something to get my writing-brain in gear. But I am on holiday all of next week and planning to finish both this and post lots of CF. So, this isn't a long break from CF, it's just a little side-project. 
> 
> I imagine this will be about four chapters long. I don't know for certain though. The boys never do what I want them to...

He nearly crashed the car. He swore and spun his steering wheel round, taking one quick breath to steady himself. “Bollocks,” he muttered under his breath. It wasn’t that he was bad at this, this high-speed driving with the sirens blazing. It may have been a while since he’d done it, but when he had first joined the Met, he’d been one of the best at hair-raising drives through the capital to chase down suspects.

But this was under very different circumstances.

Someone’s life was at risk, and while that wasn’t wholly unusual, what was different was it was someone he knew, cared about and suddenly felt very overprotective of.

When he got to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was already outside the building wearing a flour-covered apron and with pins in her hair.

“Did you see the television? What’s happening?” she asked as Greg approached her.

Greg shook his head. “Don’t know,” he replied. “His Nibs just told me to get here as fast as I could and take you back to mine.”

She crossed her arms. “What has he done this time?”

“God only knows,” he said, and he was grateful Mrs Hudson hadn’t been told about Magnussen and Mary and six months in Eastern Europe until Sherlock’s almost-certain death. Although she deserved better than for Sherlock to disappear for months on end without a word, only to find out he’d died. But then, she’d always deserved a bit better than Sherlock.

Then there was the bang. Mrs Hudson screamed, and on instinct, Greg sprung into action and pushed her down onto the ground and covered her with his body. Glass splintered onto the ground and landed on his back and his head. He didn’t feel any pain. All he noticed was the scorching heat from the flames, the sound of screams from elsewhere in the road.

“Mrs Hudson,” he said, sitting up. “Are you alright?”

She only stared at him, dazed. She had a graze on her right cheek and Greg could only wince and mutter an apology for handling her so roughly. They both looked to where 221B was, ablaze.

There was no time to sit there contemplating how Mrs Hudson’s whole life had gone up in flames. No time to contemplate that it was a bomb or what had caused it and if it was Moriarty.

Greg scrambled up to his feet, holding his hands out to Mrs Hudson to take. She stared at him as he pulled her up and Greg began to steer her towards the car. “What’s-” she started.

“No time,” he said, opening the passenger seat. “Just get in.”

“But what-”

“Get in!”

She yelped and got in the car, Greg joining her and then pausing. There was a sound of sirens now, the fire engines already en-route to the scene. Greg put his foot down and drove away as fast as he could.

He wriggled in his seat so he could pull his phone out of his coat pocket and hand it to Mrs Hudson. “Call Sher-” he paused. “Hang on. Wait. No. Call John.”

“John?”

“Call John.”

He glanced over to where Mrs Hudson was handling his phone, her hands shaking and bleeding. “Crap,” Greg muttered, holding his hand out. “Give it here.” He pulled into the side of the road. Blood was smeared over the phone screen and Greg took his scarf off. “Use this for your hands,” he said, handing it to her. He found John’s number and held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he began to drive again, not bothered about breaking the law, not now.

It rang twice. “Hi, it’s John.”

“John. I’m calling you and not Sherlock, because I don’t want him to start getting all jumpy. But don’t go to Baker Street. 221B it’s… well, it’s gone, alright? Mrs Hudson’s… mostly fine, I’ve got her in the car and we’re safe.”

“What?”

“It blew up.” Greg swallowed. “Tell Sherlock I’m sorry, but I’ve got Mrs Hudson now.”

“John,” Greg heard Sherlock say in the background. There was a scuffle and some swearing until Sherlock’s voice finally came over clearly. “Lestrade. Tell me everything.”

Greg sighed. “Not much to tell,” he said, glancing at Mrs Hudson, who had wrapped his scarf around her hands and was now watching him with an earnest expression. “Me and Mrs H are in a car and driving to… well, God knows where, but 221B’s gone. Exploded.”

There was a moment of silence. “We need a rendezvous point,” Sherlock muttered. “Mycroft?” More moments of silence and distant conversation followed. “Get to Norwood Hill,” Sherlock finally said. “It’s near Gatwick Airport, but it should be safe to meet there.”

“Sherlock? What’s going on?”

“Did you see it? On the TV?”

“Yeah,” Greg said softly, his blood running cold at just the thought of it. “I saw it.”

“That’s what’s going on,” Sherlock murmured. “We’re splitting resources. Going undercover until we can figure out what this means.”

“Fill me in later, alright? And if you can grab some medical supplies, I think we’re gonna need ‘em.”

“We’ll get everything we need.” Then Sherlock hung up, and Greg dropped his phone into his lap. He glanced at Mrs Hudson.

“Sherlock’s sorting it out,” he said, his voice sounding much more confident than he felt. “He’ll sort it.” He bit his lip and continued to drive, occasionally breaking the speed limit. Mrs Hudson, unusually, stayed silent, just staring out of the window.

Norwood Hill turned out to be one large car park on the edge of green fields and hills and trees. It was eerily still. It was late enough in the morning that the dog walkers had already gone for their strolls. It was cold enough for people to be cooped up indoors in their homes rather than going for a brisk walk.

Greg helped Mrs Hudson from the car and they walked for 15 minutes until they found Mycroft’s car in the middle of a dirt track, with a wooded area in the distance. Sherlock was stood outside the car on the phone. The back door of the car was open and Mary was sat on the backseat, leaning out of it to talk to John.

Mycroft caught Greg’s eye first. He nodded his head once, and Greg held Mrs Hudson’s arm as they walked the rest of the way towards them.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said first, lowering his phone and walking towards her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“Don’t fuss, I’m fine,” she was saying, but Sherlock was leading her to the car. John was with her immediately, taking out a carrier bag and beginning to tend to her cuts.

Greg watched them for a moment before turning to Mycroft. “What’s going on, Mycroft?” he asked.

“Your guess as good as mine, I’m afraid.”

“That’s bloody frightening, I hope you know that.”

“I’m aware.”

Sherlock marched back over to them. “I’ve just seen the news. One bomb in Baker Street. One at John’s surgery.”

“Shit,” Greg muttered. “Shit! How many people-”

“We don’t know yet.”

“What about Molly?”

“She’s in a car with Mycroft’s assistant.” Sherlock frowned at him and reached out to touch Greg’s head, though he dropped his hand before it got there. “Did you know you were bleeding?”

Greg frowned and touched his temple, surprised when his hand came away with blood on it. “No, I didn’t.” Sherlock began to walk around him, assessing. “Sherlock… it’s fine.”

“Stay still,” Sherlock muttered. He stood behind him and rested one hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Take your coat off.”

“We can deal with this later,” Greg grumbled.

“Take your coat off.”

With a sigh, Greg unzipped it, rolling his eyes as Sherlock yanked it from his shoulder along with his jacket. “You’ve got cuts all over your back,” Sherlock announced stepping back. “John!” he shouted.

“Leave it,” Greg hissed at him. “Let John deal with Mrs Hudson.”

But Mary was walking towards them, one hand on her very pregnant belly. “Do you need some medical help?” she asked.

Greg shot Sherlock a look and began to pull his coat back on, wincing a bit. Now he knew the cuts were there, they seemed to sting, like paper cuts, all over his shoulders and down his spine. 

“No, we’re fine,” Sherlock muttered, glaring at Greg.

“We really haven’t got all day to stand here talking,” Mycroft murmured. “We need to discuss what exactly we’re doing.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “We’ve been over this, this is my problem, I’m dealing with it.”

“And look how well that went last time.” They all looked up as John joined their circle, taking hold of Mary’s hand. “So what’s the plan?” he asked.

“There’s no plan,” Sherlock said. “Except you all go somewhere and hide.”

“Hide?” John asked, incredulous. “That’s your plan?”

“Yes, it’s my plan. Mycroft. Anything better?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, I suspect duck and cover is as good a suggestion as any until we know what we’re dealing with.”

John shook his head. “I know what we’re dealing with, and it’s Moriarty.”

“Moriarty’s dead,” Mary said.

“Is he?” John asked.

They all turned to Sherlock who sighed. “The probability of one of us surviving that rooftop was… slim,” Sherlock murmured. “But both of us? He shot himself in the mouth. I saw it. All of it.”

“Mycroft, I mean, you’ve got cameras and stuff,” John said. “Surely you’ve got something by now?”

Mycroft shook his head. “We’re trying to work out how the footage was transmitted across the entire country. But, no, nothing at the moment. We can’t predict where will be targeted next, except we can only assume anyone associated with Sherlock is at risk. Mine and Sherlock’s parents are being moved to a safehouse as we speak. Miss Hooper will be joining us shortly with Anthea. By then, we should have found somewhere suitable for everyone to go.”

“Everyone?” Greg asked. “Sherlock included?”

“I’m not sitting around and waiting,” he said. “If it’s Moriarty, then… well, let’s just say we have some unfinished business.” Sherlock and Mycroft eyed each other for a moment.

“If it’s Moriarty,” Mary started, “isn’t that exactly what he thinks you’re going to do?”

A few moments passed before Sherlock spoke. “Yeah,” he conceded. “Yeah, it probably is.”

“Well,” Mary said. “Well, you, me and John could-”

“-No,” Sherlock said sharply. “You, me and John aren’t anything. Me and John aren’t anything.”

“You. What?” John asked, taking a step towards him.

“I’m not putting you in the firing line,” Sherlock muttered. “You have other things that are more important.”

“This is your life you’re talking about.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and turned to pointedly look down at Mary’s bump. John let out a huff and shook his head. “Fine,” he murmured. “Fine, you win, but I’m not gonna just let you run off and…”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock muttered.

“Shut up, all of you,” Mycroft interjected. “Sherlock, you’re not doing anything so rash, not until we’ve had some time to work out what this is. Have a little bit of patience.”

Greg snorted. “Patience? Sherlock be patient?”

Mycroft ignored him. “We’ll split up,” he said. “I can get John and Mary and Molly, Greg and Mrs Hudson to a suitable location, out of London. They’ll take different routes to get there and swap cars on the way. Sherlock you can come with me and-”

“-No,” Sherlock said. “No, I’m not going anywhere with you. He knows I’ll go back to London. That’s exactly where he expects me to go. I need to draw him out.”

“Are you thinking of going someone particular?”

“How true are those rumours of the secret MOD base in Dorset?”

“Greatly exaggerated,” Mycroft murmured. “The one in Portsmouth, however…” He frowned. “I can probably make some arrangements for you to get there. Lay some clues, prepare the groundwork. But I need a few days for that.”

“I’ll go slowly,” Sherlock said. “Stay in a hotel.”

“No. No one can see you, Sherlock. You’re a… celebrity now,” Mycroft murmured, his top lip curling into a sneer. “You can’t risk someone putting your whereabouts on the internet.”

“Then I’ll camp.”

John snorted. “You’re going to camp outside until Moriarty finds you?”

“He’s not going to find me until I want him to,” Sherlock said. “And I’ve camped before. What do you think I did while I was 'dead'? Stay in five star luxury hotels the whole time?”

They all fell quiet for a moment, as everyone took in those words. It seemed for many of them, that was exactly what they had thought had happened. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to Mycroft. “Send everyone to your safehouse,” he said.

“I’m coming with you,” John said.

“No. You’re not.”

“I can drive. And I can buy-”

“-No,” Sherlock said sharply. “You need to look after Mary and the baby. They are your priorities. I’ll do this alone.”

“Like hell you will,” Greg cut in, frowning at him. “No, you know what, we’ve been there, done that, got the t-shirts, thought you were dead for two sodding years. If you’re doing this then… well, _I’m_ coming with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Greg glared at him. “I’m not.”

“The chances are Moriarty’s going to kill me and-”

“-You reckon I’ll let you go gallivanting off in 10 minutes time all on your own?”

“Yes, actually, I do. You’re useless with a gun and-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Greg snapped. “I’m coming with you, like it or not. Anyone got a problem with that?”

“Sherlock’s right,” Mycroft murmured. “The chances are, the visit to Portsmouth could well be a one-way trip.”

“Well, what have I got to lose?” Greg asked, shrugging. “And anyway. No one will know my face when I walk into Argos and Tesco and buy a tent and supplies, will they? Hell, I could even go and get a secondhand car and no one would know or give a toss who I am.”

“Admittedly, no one would suspect I’d allow Lestrade to come with me,” Sherlock murmured.

“Four years of being in the army doesn’t hurt either,” Greg pointed out. "I can do a bit of roughing it." 

“What?” John asked. “You were in the army? But-”

“Lestrade can’t shoot a gun for the life of him because he feels guilty about all those people he shot,” Sherlock said.

Greg swallowed and glanced down at his feet. 

“Sherlock,” Mary warned. “Don’t do that.”

“Well, it’s true,” Sherlock said and Greg could only swear under his breath in response, muttering about him being a 'fucking bastard sometimes'.

“As riveting as this,” Mycroft murmured, cutting them off. “I think we need to consider this conversation over.” They looked up as another car pulled up. “That’s Anthea and Molly. Sherlock, Greg, if you walk five miles east, you’ll find a small town. I imagine you should be able to pick up a secondhand car, and you can use your phone to organise insurance and everything else. As soon as you’ve done that, throw away your phones and buy new ones. Give me three days to get everything set up in Portsmouth. One way or another, we’ll lure Moriarty - or whoever it is - to you. Then you’ll have one day once you’re there to get everything set up. Assume you’re being followed with every step you take.”

“This is ridiculous,” John muttered. “Sherlock I’m coming with you,” he protested again.

“No,” Sherlock said, turning on him. “Don’t you see, John? If Moriarty doesn’t die, then you all die. You, Mary, the baby, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade, everyone. One at a time, slowly, and painfully. He won’t stop. I got you into this, and I’m getting you out of it.” He took a few steps to John, holding his eyes. “I want you and Mary to have the baby and live long and happy lives.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’ve avoided it so far.” He turned to Greg. “Shall we?” he asked.

Greg nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, we shall,” he said, his chest suddenly tight. He turned to John. “I’m keeping a close eye on him.” He turned around as Molly and Anthea got out of the car and he shot them a quick smile. “C’mon then, Sherlock. Let’s be going.”

They all stayed quiet, standing in the circle for a few moments before Sherlock turned, his coat billowing behind him. Greg nodded to them once, before beginning to follow.

Oh holy shit, he thought. Here we go again. 


	2. The Woods

It only took a few minutes of walking until the others were out of sight. Greg looked over his shoulder, frowned and then turned back to where Sherlock was marching ahead of him. “Hang on a sec!” he called out, jogging to catch up.

Sherlock turned to face him, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We’ve got to keep moving,” he said. “I’d like to get there in two hours.”

“That’s fine. It’s fine.” Greg reached so they could walk together. “Right, now we can go.”

Sherlock huffed and Greg rolled his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to realise Sherlock’s fancy shoes were not in the least bit suited to the amount of walking they were planning to do. Greg’s police issue pair would get him through the next five miles easy enough, but Sherlock’s wouldn’t last long, not in the mud and the grass. “There’s a lot of stuff we need to get when we arrive,” Greg said. “I mean, camping stuff, food, backpacks, clothes, medical supplies…”

“Guns.”

Greg frowned at him. “Yeah, we’ll just walk into a supermarket and pick those up, shall we?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mycroft will find somewhere for us to pick them up, I imagine. I don’t know where or when but… he’ll sort it out.”

“And what’s this MOD place we’re going to?”

“The less you know about that, the better for now.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “For now? Sherlock, tell me you’re going to fill me in at some point?”

“Are you going to talk the whole way?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, don’t. I need to think.”

Greg sighed. “Fine,” he muttered. “Fine, you just be… you. And I’ll be bored out of my skull for three days straight, how’s that?”

“If it means you’ll be silent, that’s fine with me.”

“Nope. I reckon if I was silent for a couple of hours, you’d go crazy.”

“I would not.”

Greg shrugged and began to walk ahead, looking up at the trees as they followed the path into the woods. The blackbirds were twittering overhead. Greg stepped over a loose branch, inhaling the cold air. He felt a chill around his chest and zipped his coat up to the top. He’d have to get a scarf too, he supposed. January wasn’t ideal for this kind of hike, not when Sherlock was wearing inappropriate shoes and neither of them were prepared for what came next.

He listened to the crunch and pat of their feet on solid ground, the occasional squelch from mud underfoot. And he stayed silent.

Sherlock was walking behind him, keeping the same pace, as though they were following some sort of drill. Left right, left right, left right.

Greg checked his watch. Only 15 minutes in, and he was already doubting his decision to come. He’d left work with no notice, although he imagined Mycroft would clear all of that up for him. But he had no idea what he’d let himself in for, or what might have been going on in London. The country could have been in chaos for all he knew, and he and Sherlock were just wandering through the woods as though they hadn’t a care in the world.

He smiled to himself though as a squirrel caught sight of them, freezing for a moment, its tail twitching, black beady eyes assessing them. And then it leapt onto the tree, scurrying up so it could survey them from the branches, as though they were intruders, invading its territory.

Despite the chill, he soon warmed up. He used to go walking a lot before he was married. He and Rebecca took walks through London’s parks. Regent’s Park, St James’ Park, Hyde Park. Summer or winter, they’d stroll through together, holding hands, while she told him what the plants were and dreamed of what colourful delights they’d fill their own garden up with one day, when they left London for somewhere quieter.

That had never suited Greg. Not that life. He fought tooth and nail to stay in London, and only agreed to swap their flat in a prime location to the Yard for a house much further away when Rebecca began to drift away.

She didn’t stop drifting though, even when she had her garden and her plants. Even when Greg spent a weekend digging out an enormous hole in the garden to be filled with a pond. No, she kept getting further and further away from him, until they were so far apart that he wasn’t even sure they’d ever been close.

She had her plants. He had his work. And there were the affairs, and while Rebecca was the sole guilty party on that count, Greg didn’t even blame her for it. It had got to the point, he thought, that if someone had shown some genuine interest in him, he’d have struggled not to do the same.

In the end, the hurt of their marriage ending only lingered as regret and nostalgia for once-pleasant memories. The ache faded with time, only to be replaced with a growing sense of emptiness that no number of affection-less one-night stands could cure.

So he’d given up on those, a year after Sherlock ‘died’. He’d tried a few dates, but he could never get them to stick. So 18 months after Sherlock ‘died’, he gave up on those too.

He lifted his hand to his head, but the bleeding had stopped. His back didn’t hurt so much now, apart from when he occasionally lifted his arm to hold a branch up above his head. The pain came in little jabs, as though there was glass digging into his skin. He wouldn’t have been surprised if that were the case, but now was the time to keep walking.

Onward, and onward until the woods held far less interest for him than they had done. He’d seen all the types of tree available to them, all bare and seemingly dead though very much lying in wait for the warmer weather. He’d seen those few evergreen trees, the plants beginning to sprout. The clearings, where perhaps bluebells could grow soon.

It could have been worse. It could have been raining or snowing, but instead, it was pleasantly mild.

The next time he checked his watch, they had been walking for an hour, and the silence had been tolerable. So much so, that he hadn’t noticed it until finally, finally Sherlock spoke, the words bursting out of him as though he’d been popped like a balloon. “Oh for goodness sake, I get the point!”

Greg glanced over his shoulder at him and grinned. “What’s the point?” he asked.

“Ask all the monotonous questions you want. Go on. Get them over with.”

“I don’t have anything to ask at the minute,” Greg said, still smiling at him. “But when I do have something, I will tell you.”

Sherlock scowled at him and took a few long strides so they were walking beside each other again. “We have another hour to go. Then you go and get the supplies. But not a car. We’ll walk to the next town after this one, and then drive from there, avoiding the motorways as much as possible.”

“Alright.” Greg checked his watch. “That makes it one-thirty by the time we get to the town. Sun goes down at four o’clock, and I don’t think we can keep walking in the dark.”

“I agree. As long as you make it back quickly, I think we can manage another few miles before we set up camp. Then we’ll get up at break of dawn tomorrow.”

“Heard anything from Mycroft?”

“No, not yet. I don’t expect to, not until we buy new phones and contact him with those. In fact, we should probably turn ours off.”

Greg nodded and slid his from his jacket. He switched it off and Sherlock did the same.

“How you doing?” Greg asked, glancing at him. “Is there anything particular you need me to get for you?”

“New shoes,” Sherlock muttered. “They’re not suited for this terrain. Are you sure you can carry everything back?”

“Haven’t exactly got a choice. I’ll be fine, I’m sure, as long as you wait near enough to the town. Tents are pretty lightweight, so are sleeping bags. And I can always pop back again if I have to.”

“Only get enough food and drink for one night. We’ll buy phones tomorrow.”

“Any preferences?”

“No.”

Greg frowned. “So then. Are you going to share your plan with me yet?”

“Lestrade. I don’t have a plan.”

Greg glanced at him, dread coming over him. “What?”

“When we get to Portsmouth… I don’t have a plan. I have… theories, but that’s all. I don’t know what we’re going to find when we get there.”

“What do you think we’re going to find?”

Sherlock sighed. “I think we’re going to find a team of nine people, and a selection of weapons. I think they’re going to build us something, and we will lure Moriarty down there and… take him out. I think Mycroft has to do his job right for that to happen. I don’t have a plan apart from that. He has to die and that probably means I do too. Or you and I both will. I don’t really envisage us both coming out of this.”

Greg swallowed, shoving his hands in his pockets. He took a long breath out. “Bugger, then.”

“Mmm. I didn’t really plan to die with anyone being there. When I did, I always suspected it would be alone. I’m not sure I want you to be there when it happens.”

Greg glanced at him. “I don’t want it to happen, full stop.”

“Do you believe in the afterlife?”

Greg hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “No, I don’t think… I want to believe in it. But I don’t.”

“That makes no sense. But you’d be fine anyway,” Sherlock said. “If the pearly gates exist, I’m sure they’ll let you in.”

Greg laughed. “Well, cheers for that.”

Sherlock smiled. They kept walking, until they saw buildings in the distance. Sherlock looked around. “You see that fence over there?”

Greg nodded. “Yep.”

“I’m going to wait there while you’re gone.”

“You sure?” Sherlock nodded. Greg shrugged. “Right then. See you in a bit.” He forced a smile and began to walk in the direction of the town.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock called after him.

Greg turned around, frowning. “What?” he asked.

“Buy some tweezers.”

“Tweezers?”

“I think you have glass embedded in your back. I’ll get it out for you when you’re back.”

Greg nodded to him. “See you soon.”

It took 20 minutes for him to arrive in the town. He found a camping shop and spent far more money than he wanted to on gloves and a scarf, two pairs of hiking boots, some boxers and socks and t-shirts and sleeping bags and a tent. He picked up some sausages and beans and bottles of water, along with a collection of medical supplies. He hauled them into two backpacks.

He winced with every step as he walked, the backpack painful against where he knew the cuts must be. When he finally found Sherlock, he was sat on the fence, his arms on his knees as he stared out across the fields.

“Nice view,” Greg said as he came to stand beside him, dumping everything on the floor.

Sherlock glanced at him and hopped off the fence, opening the backpack. He found one of the bottles of water and took a few sips. He handed the bottle to Greg and he did the same. “Jesus, needed that,” Greg muttered, not realising how thirsty he had become.

“Get your shirt off,” Sherlock said, taking out the green medical bag. He popped open the antibacterial gel, rubbing some into his hands. Greg just stared at him. Sherlock turned his attention back up to Greg from where he crouched on the floor. “Go on. You’re not going to be able to keep going if your cuts get infected.”

With a sigh, Greg shrugged his coat and jacket off, hanging them over the fence. “Bloody freezing,” he muttered. He began to unbutton his shirt, shaking his head in disbelief at all the ridiculous situations he got himself into when Sherlock Holmes was involved.

Sherlock had the tweezers in one hand, wielding them like a scalpel. Greg pulled a face and turned away from him, leaning against the fence, waiting while Sherlock analysed his back. “Well?” he demanded.

“You’ve got seven cuts, three of them look as though they might have glass in. You should have let me do this earlier.”

“Well, things got a bit busy earlier,” Greg muttered, pulling a face as Sherlock’s cold hand pressed against his back. “Christ almighty, you couldn’t have warmed them up a bit first?” He yelped as the tweezers dug into his skin. “Bloody hell, Sherlock!”

“If I don’t do this, they could get infected.”

“You’re just doing this to torture me,” Greg muttered. “You don’t want me here, so you’re just going to inflict pain on me.”

“That hadn’t crossed my mind, but now you mention it…”

Greg hissed as the point of the tweezers dug into his skin again.

“Got one,” Sherlock said, holding the tweezers out to Greg so he could see the small shard of glass between them. “Imagine this in your skin the whole way while you’re trying to carry a backpack.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Greg sighed, staring back at the woods they’d come from. “Have you ever had first aid training?”

“No. I have enough knowledge to get by. Do you?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some. Been a while since I brushed up on it though. Ow!”

Sherlock huffed. “Stay still.”

“Stop prodding me.”

“Stop wriggling.”

“Stop being an arse.” Greg yelled out as Sherlock’s cold fingers touched his side. “What, have you got icebergs attached to your hands?”

“Stop. Moving.”

“Then warm your hands up.”

“I wish you hadn’t come,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah, that feeling’s pretty mutual right about now.”

“I’m doing you a favour.”

Greg snorted. “Funny how your favours never actually feel like favours. Now a favour would be doing something a bit selfless, like…”

“Pretending to be dead for two years to save your life?”

Greg bit his bottom lip. “Fine. Play that card again, I don’t care.”

“I’m not playing a card. I’m merely pointing out that I have done some things for you, even if you don’t like to consider the notion.”

“I have no problem with the ‘notion’,” Greg muttered. “I know you’re not a total heartless bastard. Ouch! What still pisses me off is that you thought doing it by yourself was acceptable.”

“Well, I’m not by myself this time, am I?”

“Only because I insisted.”

“Yes, because you _insisted_. I wish you hadn’t bothered.”

“Ow!”

“That’s the last one,” Sherlock said.

Greg stepped away and pulled his shirt on, shaking his head. “The problem with you, Sherlock, is you think you’re always right.”

“I am alright right.”

“No. No, you’re wrong about that. You don’t…” Greg shook his head, buttoning his jacket and then shrugging his coat on. He sighed and hauled on one of the backpacks. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For doing that.”

Sherlock nodded, bending down to change his shoes. “You can always go,” he said, looking up from the ground. “I’m not stopping you.”

“You already know that’s not an option for me now,” Greg murmured. “So let’s just keep walking.”

Sherlock led the way this time, with Greg trailing a few feet behind. They swapped over carrying the tent at various intervals, but mostly they stayed silent, watching as the sun began to set and the sky got darker and darker until finally Sherlock stopped and dumped the tent on the ground.

“If we don’t stop now, we won’t have enough light to grab some firewood.”

“I’ll get it,” Greg said. “You reckon you can manage the tent?”

“What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

Greg smiled and rolled his eyes. He began to walk towards some trees, hunting around on the ground to collect what he could. He carried it back in his arms, staring up at the skies as the birds went to their beds in the trees.

“These instructions are all wrong!” he heard Sherlock exclaim. “Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.”

Greg laughed, jogging over and dropping the wood down on the floor. “You do the fire. I’ll finish the tent.” He pulled a face as he looked at how little Sherlock had achieved in the past half an hour. “So much for genius Sherlock Holmes,” he said with a grin.

“Oh, fuck off,” Sherlock muttered and Greg burst out laughing, kneeling down on the ground to fix the poles in. Sherlock’s fire-lighting skills were much better than his tent-building, and he had it going within minutes, without the aid of Greg’s lighter. Greg spread the tent bag on the ground so they could sit on it, beginning to cook their food.

“Sorry about earlier,” Greg said after a while, accepting the tin of beans and the spoon as Sherlock passed them over. “I shouldn’t have… you know, said what I did.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a bit.”

“Really,” Sherlock said, leaning back and sipping his water. “It’s fine.”

“What happened, Sherlock?” Greg asked. “When you were gone?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s done, what point is it in going over it?”

Greg nodded. He handed back the tin and lay down on his back, staring up at the sky and the stars. “Most of them are dead already,” he murmured. “I remember finding that out and thinking it was really depressing.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “They’re dead?” he asked.

“You don’t know that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “The solar system doesn’t hold any interest for me. I deleted it to make room for more important matters.”

“So, I guess you don’t want a lesson then?”

“Not particularly, but I expect you’re going to regale me anyway.”

Greg smiled, looking up at the sky. “The stars we can see are dead. Not all of them, but the majority of them. But because it takes so long for the light to reach us, we wouldn’t know.”

“Why do you know that?”

“I dunno. Too many science fiction movies, maybe?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You would watch science fiction,” he muttered, lying down on his back beside Greg. “Is this the part where you say we’re all insignificant in the grand scheme of things and everything comes out in the wash?”

“Nope. Because we’re not and it doesn’t.” Greg turned his head to look at him. “I mean, I suppose if you think of the size of the whole universe, then who cares about a tiny earth, right? But we’re not insignificant. Because… well, the only grand scheme of things we have is our own scheme.”

“Yeah. All this talk about stars and staring up at the sky…” Sherlock turned to him and Greg glanced at him. “It’s…”

“Really boring?”

Sherlock grinned. “John told me he took an ex-girlfriend to go stargazing. He said they lay on a field and stared up at the sky. I told him it sounded like my idea of hell.”

“And? Is it?”

“Moriarty being back is my idea of hell. But this is pretty close.”

Greg burst out laughing, sitting up again and holding his hands up to the fire to get some warmth. “People would say what John did is pretty romantic.”

“Romantic? It sounds cold and boring.”

Greg smiled. “And who said romance is dead, ‘ey?”

Sherlock sat up and frowned at him. “Romance didn’t save your relationship, did it?”

“No,” Greg agreed. “No, it didn’t. But nothing else would have done either. It was… dead. It died a long time before we realised it.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at the fire. “Gonna go lie down, I think,” Greg finally said. “I’m pretty knackered.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Greg nodded and walked towards the tent. He found a torch in one of the backpacks and switched it on, using it for light as he changed into a t-shirt and stripped down to his pants. He slid into the sleeping bag, using his jacket and coat as a pillow. He lay down on his back, staring up at the roof of the tent.

His limbs ached, and knowing they’d be doing it all over again tomorrow made him crave a bath and a beer. But he closed his eyes, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in.

Sherlock joined him a little while later and Greg kept his eyes closed while he undressed. Sherlock flicked the torch off and they were plunged into darkness.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked after a while.

“What?”

“Do you have a will?”

There was a pause. “Yeah. Mycroft made me write one, right before I jumped from Bart’s. Why?”

“I don’t. I don’t have a lot anyway but… I don’t have a will.”

“Who would you leave your money go to?”

“My sister, I guess.”

“Is that… acceptable to you?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’d have no problem with her getting all of it. Still. I suppose I should think about writing one.”

“When I die, you get my violin.”

Greg blinked and rolled onto his side, even though he couldn't make Sherlock out through the darkness. “What?”

“When I die, my violin is yours. You always liked listening to me play more than anyone else does.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Everyone likes it when you play.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s yours to do what you want with.”

Greg frowned and closed his eyes, not sure what to say. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Lestrade.”

Greg rolled onto his side, until his back was to Sherlock. He sighed and closed his eyes and hoped sleep would come quickly.


	3. Miles Of Fields

He was woken up by a finger prodding his cheek. “Oh bugger off,” Greg groaned, covering his eyes with his arm.

“The sun’s coming up,” Sherlock informed him. “We need to move.”

Greg’s stomach lurched at the prospect. He hadn’t eaten much the day before, and now he’d gone past hungry into just feeling sick. Waking up at the crack of dawn wasn’t appealing, and neither was another day of walking, if he were honest.

But he sat up anyway and peered at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes, the torch providing just about enough light to see he was already dressed. “You’re worse than a ruddy drill sergeant.”

Sherlock half smiled at that, a pleased glimmer in his eyes. “Up you get. I’ll give you 20 minutes to get ready.” He pushed some clothes into Greg’s arms and then crawled out of the tent, letting in a cold breeze.

Greg pulled a face and stretched his arms above his head, pulling his backpack close so he could wash as best as he could with some wipes. He pulled a jumper on along with some trousers and hiking boots. The sun was breaking through the darkness, the birds beginning to twitter away. Greg took himself to the trees for a piss and to brush his teeth before joining Sherlock in packing away the gear.

“It’s an 12-mile walk,” Sherlock informed him. “We’ll just keep going. I had to contact Mycroft. Someone will meet you there to give us phones and supplies.”

Greg nodded. “Right then,” he said, shrugging on his coat. He gave Sherlock a once over. “How you holding up?” he asked.

“I’m fine. It’s just a bit of walking.”

“No, I know it is. Everyone’s safe though?”

“Yeah, everyone’s safe.” Sherlock pulled some gloves on and collected the bags. Greg pulled his own backpack on and picked up the tent.

They shared one long look before beginning on their way again, Greg following Sherlock’s lead. They didn’t speak as they got started, and Greg was too tired to try to start a conversation. The silence fell easy between them as the watched the sky brighten. The grass was crisp with overnight frost, their breaths visible in the air.

They were far enough from homes and businesses now that they were unlikely to come across anyone. They were too lonely shadows, making their way to goodness knows where.

After a couple of hours, they stopped by a small stream, sharing their one remaining bottle of water. “Anything could be happening in London and we wouldn’t know,” Greg muttered, checking the time.

“It’s best not to think about it.”

Greg nodded and put the bottle back in his bag. “I don’t know how though. It’s in my head now.”

“We’d know if something terrible was happening. Just forget about it.”

They got back into their rhythm, Greg ignoring the way his stomach rumbled. “You know what would be really good right about now?” he asked.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“If we had a police sniffer dog. We could wave some of Moriarty’s aftershave under its nose, and then if he was coming near, we’d know.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “I always wished you’d been a police dog handler.”

“You what?”

“I like dogs.”

“Oh. Didn’t know that.”

“Yes, I had a dog as a child. Called Redbeard.”

“That’s a good name.”

“Mmm. He was a good dog.”

“I had a dog too,” Greg said after a little while.

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mum used to breed Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. So I always grew up surrounded by dogs and puppies. Anyway, one of these pups, he wasn’t quite perfect, you know? You could see it from the beginning that he wouldn’t be up to par to go in all those dog shows. There was nothing wrong with him, but he just… wasn’t quite perfect, and he was a bit of a runt and tiny. His mum basically rejected him so my mum hand-reared him. Anyway, I wanted him. I was, maybe seven at the time. And I cried and cried until my parents said we could keep him. But he was my responsibility. I’d make sure he was fed and watered and go out with my parents to take him for walks.”

“What was his name?”

“Lucifer.” Greg grinned. “That wasn’t my choice. It was October, and I got obsessed with my mum’s pumpkin pie. I wanted to call him Pumpkin, but my dad said he wouldn’t stand in a park calling ‘Pumpkin’ at the top of his lungs. So, they chose Lucifer. At the time I didn’t realise it was another name for the Devil.”

Sherlock laughed. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“He slept on my bed every night until he died,” Greg said with a wistful smile. “He was a sweet dog. Some of those others, they had this look like they knew they were better. They had their noses in the air. But Lucifer was loyal to a fault. He got muddy and he ran and chased but he’d always come back. Always wanted another dog but…”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t give one the time it needs, not with my hours. It wouldn’t be fair. I think when I retire, I’ll get another one. I’m not sure if it’ll be a Cav or something else. What was Redbeard?”

“An Irish Setter. He is… irreplaceable. But I did want another dog. I just don’t think John and Mrs Hudson would have approved.”

“There’s always time,” Greg said, but Sherlock stayed silent, as though he didn’t think that was the case. Greg swallowed and they kept walking.

They followed the trail through to another wood, the ground muddy underfoot. One large tree had fallen in their path. “When a tree falls in a wood and nobody hears,” Greg murmured, beginning to clamber over it.

He stepped into a puddle on the other side and pulled a face as the water splashed up onto his trousers. “Brilliant,” he muttered, turning around and offering his hand to Sherlock to help him over.

“What am I?” Sherlock asked. “Your damsel in distress?”

Greg grinned at him. “C’mon,” he said. “Don’t be a proud git.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but gripped Greg’s forearm anyway, allowing him to help him over it.

They kept going for five hours, their conversations mostly relating to the cold and asking if the other was okay with the pace they’d set. For Greg, this was the most walking he’d done in years, but he would sooner get blisters on his feet than give up.

As they passed a farmhouse and reached the edge of a village, Sherlock found himself a tree stump to perch on, his head slumping forward. Greg frowned at him and reached out to rub his shoulder. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Running a bit on empty?”

Sherlock glanced up at him and nodded. “We both are,” he said.

“Yeah.” Greg dropped his bag down on the ground and pulled out the rest of the water, taking one long swig before handing it to Sherlock. He stayed with him for a few moments. “I should go on,” he finally said. “Go and meet your brother’s lackey. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll just be there.”

Greg nodded, taking one last look at him, before leaving him sitting there.

His own footsteps sounded hollow on the stony paths. He passed a few grey-stone houses and then a village pub and a post office. He kept going until he reached a bakery. He popped inside, buying some sausage rolls and iced buns. When he walked out he spotted one of Mycroft’s black cars on the other side of the road. One of the windows slid down, and Greg walked over to it, getting in at the back.

He blinked as he realised it was Mycroft himself there. Mycroft’s cool eyes flicked from his face and down his coat for a moment before he nodded once. “How is Sherlock?” he asked.

“Tired and hungry. But otherwise he seems fine. Everyone else?”

“Safe and well.” Mycroft passed him a backpack. “You should find everything you need in here. Two guns, a map, some food and water, and two phones. There are also some car keys. The car itself is around two miles away in a pub car park. It’s a silver Corsa. Relatively common, so it won’t stand out too much.”

Greg nodded. “Cheers for this, Mycroft.”

“Avoid the motorways. You need to get there the day after tomorrow. Not before.”

“We will.”

Mycroft nodded, wringing his hands. “I’ve begun to lay a trap for Moriarty. A few breadcrumbs, if you will, leading him to the MOD base. He will believe it’s a safehouse, where he will find Sherlock and John.”

“Thanks.”

“There will only be one person there when you arrive,” Mycroft murmured. “A technician. Everyone else has been… evacuated.”

“Evacuated?”

“You will be given the instructions and codes so the building will self-destruct when you have Moriarty inside. Whoever presses the button will be able to set how long they have to escape before they too are caught in the explosion. Unfortunately, if you allow yourself too long to escape then Moriarty will too.” Mycroft turned to Greg, his face grave. “Sherlock will volunteer to enter the codes. But you understand, I don’t want my brother dead.”

Greg nodded slowly. “I don’t either,” he said. “But he won’t just run away.”

Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small black pot. “If you truly do want Sherlock to live, then you will put these into his drink. They’ll knock him out for several hours. And then you must be the one to save us all.”

Greg swallowed, tucking them away in the inside pocket of his coat. “I’m gonna be the one to die, you mean.”

“An unfortunate consequence of what must be done.” Mycroft pursed his lips. “After all you’ve done for my brother, I admit that the prospect of your death displeases me greatly. There may be time to escape. Don’t rule it out.”

“If I die, I’m taking Moriarty with me, don’t worry about that.”

Mycroft nodded. “How very self-sacrificing of you.”

Greg shrugged. “Sherlock’s worth it,” he said. “Promise me you’ll look after him? Don’t let him blame himself for what happens?”

“I can’t promise he’ll look after himself.”

“You better see to it that he does,” Greg warned. “All I’ve done since I’ve known him is the best I can for him. So I swear to God, Mycroft…”

“He has my protection. I promise.”

Greg nodded. “Cheers,” he said, before opening the car door and getting outside. He watched as the car drove off before beginning to trudge back the way he came.

That was it then. He was going to be the one to die. It was right, he thought. Of the both of them, Sherlock was the one who’d leave the biggest impact on the world, save the most people, solve the most crimes. Sherlock had so much ahead of him.

Greg made peace with it as he walked. He was a soldier still, at heart. He swore to protect. That was his only real job. Since he’d stumbled across Sherlock being beaten up by the dealers he hadn’t paid, Sherlock was the person he took care of. He’d made him his charge. He’d fought with him down the years, tooth and claw, every step of the way, until they made an uneasy peace in the year before Sherlock jumped from Bart’s.

But no matter how Sherlock pushed, Greg watched over him.

That was not going to change now, whatever happened. Greg would sacrifice his life for Sherlock. And he’d do it without a doubt in his heart.

When he got back to Sherlock, he was still sat on the tree stump, his head in his hands. “Hey,” Greg called out to him.

Sherlock lifted his head, managing a small smile. “More bags?” he asked. “How far do we have to carry them?”

“Only two miles. And I reckon we can dump some of the stuff, since we’ll have a car then.” Greg handed him a sausage roll and Sherlock began to nibble at the corner. Greg leaned against a tree, wolfing his own down and following it up with the iced bun. “You need to eat,” he said between mouthfuls. “Get some energy up.”

“Did you get any clues about what happens next?” Sherlock asked.

Greg shook his head, reaching into the bag and handing him one of the phones. “Not really. Just told to keep going. We can’t get there until the day after tomorrow, so we’ll have to slow down a bit. Maybe we’ll reach the car today and camp there? Then drive about half way, camp, then finish the journey after that.”

“That’s fine.”

“Sherlock, we’re not moving until you finish that roll.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he began to eat it, washing it down with the water. Greg handed him one of the guns, which he pocketed, before they began their walk to the car.

Sherlock seemed to brighten up after half an hour of walking, taking over the job of carrying the tent. “Did you know you snored?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yep. Ex-wife used to complain about it.”

“It’s an unusual snore,” Sherlock said. “There’s a deep rumble every 60 seconds or so, but you make this odd squeaking sound.”

“Uh. Squeaking?”

“Yeah, it’s… very unusual.”

Greg laughed. “Well, I’ve not heard that before,” he said. “Sorry if I kept you awake.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said with a soft smile. “I fell straight to sleep. I didn’t notice it until I woke up this morning.”

“I’m sure it’s one of many reasons why Rebecca wound up leaving.”

“If she was that bothered by a bit of snoring, she probably wasn’t worth bothering with in the first place.”

Greg glanced at him. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, reaching up to brush his fingers through his black hair. “I. Well, I should probably have said something nicer than that, over the years. If I haven’t then…”

“It’s fine,” Greg said, suddenly uneasy. “Really, I’m not-”

“-I know you’re not.” They stopped, staring at each other, mouths open as if they both had something to say, but neither of them sure of the words. “Come on,” Sherlock said, and they resumed their walking.

“This is probably the longest we’ve ever been near each other,” Greg murmured.

“I expect so. Usually three hours in your presence is adequate.”

“Adequate for what?”

“Don’t take it personally. Three hours around John is adequate too.”

Greg frowned. “For what?”

“Enough social interaction to get me by for about a week. I’m not complaining. I’ve had many moments where I was doing exactly this kind of walk and considering it would be better if someone else joined me.”

“If John joined you,” Greg murmured.

“Don’t get jealous, it doesn’t suit you.”

“No, that’s not it,” Greg said. “I’m not jealous of John. Not because you’re better friends than you and I were or anything like that. Or even that if it weren’t for Mary being pregnant, he’d be with you right now and not me.”

“What then?”

“You said it yourself. John’s better with a gun.”

“John likes danger. You don’t.”

“John killed Jeff Hope.”

“Yes, he did,” Sherlock said.

“I… I don’t know if I could have done that.”

“What are you saying?” Sherlock asked.

“Well. I just. Apart from giving you cases, what exactly have I been useful for? I don’t really understand why Moriarty chose me as one of your three people to protect.”

“I don’t know why either,” Sherlock admitted. “It should have been Molly.”

The words stung and Greg just stared ahead, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he said. “Should have been Molly.”

They both stayed silent for the next half hour, dampness in the air, clinging to their skin. Greg had begun to pull away, creating a gap between them, one which he wasn’t willing to close. He had a duty to him and a job to carry out. And he wasn’t going to let Sherlock anger him to the point that he couldn’t do it. He touched the pot in his coat pocket, and it only strengthened his resolve.

“I didn’t want you to die,” Sherlock said suddenly, jogging to catch up with him.

“No, I know.”

“No, you… Stop.”

Greg sighed and turned to him, crossing his arms. “What?” he snapped.

“I missed it,” Sherlock said. “That you were there the whole time. I did ignore it. And I only gave you my violin in my will because Mycroft said I should.”

“Oh for goodness-”

“-Will you stop and listen to me?” Sherlock demanded. Greg sighed and nodded. “You’re good. Better than good. I took advantage of your… nature and your cases. And I did it because I knew you were easy to manipulate. I knew about your history in the army, that you couldn’t stand to think about the men you killed. That somehow you thought you had to make it up to them. And I knew you saw me as something to fix.”

Greg shook his head. “I-”

“Shut up. You never went away,” Sherlock continued. “Even after all that, you stuck around like some… pathetic needy puppy.” Greg glared at him, but Sherlock only carried on. “But I… You weren’t there for those two years I was away. None of you were and...”

“Of course not. You pushed us away and lied to us.”

“To protect you.”

“To protect yourself!”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“You think I didn’t notice how much you hated having us all as friends? That no matter what you did, how many people you manipulated, how many times you drove John absolutely up the bloody wall, we never went away. And I know you hated that. And you tried really fucking hard to isolate yourself.”

“But why didn’t you go?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you here?”

Greg stared at him. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “But the fact is, you stopped pushing us when you came back. So I don’t think you liked being alone, wherever you were.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, his voice soft. “And for what it’s worth… I’d chose you now. I’d jump off Bart’s all over again for just you, if it came to that.”

Greg stared at him, not finding the words to reply. They’d sacrifice themselves for each other and that… but… the questions, too many questions, but Sherlock’s damned phone started tor ring. Sherlock lifted it to his ear, frowning, not saying a word as he listened. He slowly lowered it.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“They killed Janine,” Sherlock whispered, frowning.

“Janine? That woman you slept with?”

“I didn’t… the papers… I didn’t sleep with her. He couldn’t find John or you or the others so he… so he went for Janine.” Sherlock rubbed his face.

“We’ll set up camp here,” Greg murmured, not sure what to do to comfort him. “We’ll find the car in the morning.”

Sherlock just nodded, standing staring into space while Greg set up the tent and then made a fire. He began to cook the food Mycroft had given them. “Come on,” he said softly, holding a hand out to Sherlock. “Just come and sit here.”

Sherlock nodded, shuffling over and collapsing down beside him.

“We’ll get him,” Greg whispered. “For everything he did, to all of us.”

“For Janine.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t have sex with her,” Sherlock said again. “It was a faux romance, to gain access to Magnussen’s office.”

“It’s fine,” Greg replied. “You don’t need to explain yourself on that.”

“I’m gay.”

Greg turned to him, frowning. “What?”

“I’m gay.”

Greg nodded slowly and turned one of the sausages on the metal rack above the fire. “Okay,” he said. “Is that… a big revelation to you or something?”

“No, it’s… I’ve always known.”

Greg smiled a bit. “Well, yeah, I figured that. Have you… told people?”

“Oh. Not particularly.”

“Okay. Well. I’m not straight.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said with a slightly bemused smile. “I did work that out.”

Greg laughed a little and began to serve up their food. Sherlock sighed, tapping his bottle of water to Greg’s. “To Janine,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. “Janine.”

After they ate, Greg took himself to the tent, lying in his sleeping bag and going over the day in his mind. After a while, he must have fallen asleep, because he was woken by a bang. He sat up with a start, fumbling around for the torch, listening as rain hammered on the tent.

He flicked it on, blinking into the light. Sherlock was sat up beside him. There was a flash of lightening from outside and Sherlock visibly flinched.

“You alright?” Greg asked, his voice hoarse.

“It’s just a storm.”

“Not what I asked,” Greg murmured. He sat watching him, at how Sherlock jumped at every bang. After a while, Greg put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He seemed to relax under that touch, his shoulders slumping, head falling forward. He let out a soft sigh and leaned back against Greg’s hands. Greg wished he’d worked out years ago that the way to calm the raging beast was just to offer him some physical comfort.

They stayed that way until the bangs stopped and Greg flicked off the torch. He lay back down, closing his eyes.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock murmured in the darkness.

“Yeah?”

“Even if Mary wasn’t… pregnant or with John… It’s you I’d have chosen to come. If I had to pick.”

Greg stayed still, his eyes wide. “I… don’t really know how to reply to that.”

“Just sleep,” Sherlock said softly, and Greg rolled over and did just that.


	4. Service Station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I can't count. I planned six chapters, not five. Then said it was five. I'm such an idiot.

Sherlock woke him by prodding his cheek. Greg groaned and tried to swat his hand away, but the prodding only moved to his chest instead. “Alright,” Greg grumbled, not opening his eyes. “I get the point.”

“Get up,” Sherlock demanded, prodding him hard.

“Ow!” He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Is it even light yet?”

“It’s 3am. I want to leave and find a service station for a shower.”

Greg frowned. “Mycroft said to avoid the motorways.”

“Lestrade. We both stink.”

Greg had to concede that point. They collected up all their gear by torchlight, before beginning the journey to the car. It only took 20 minutes to find the pub car park.

Greg unlocked the car and found the boot packed with a change of clothes for them both. There was more food, and water and some beers. Sherlock dozed in the passenger seat using Greg’s coat for a blanket while Greg began the drive, the roads near-empty.

He just listened to Sherlock’s soft breathing, winding the window down to let in some cool air to keep himself awake.

It took half an hour to find a service station, and he reached over to rub Sherlock’s arm. “Hey,” he murmured to him. “Wake up, sleepy head.”

“Hmm?”

“We’re here.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced around before his eyes focused on Greg. Greg smiled at him, winding the window back up. “How about I go in first, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes again and resting his head against the window. Greg smiled at him and got out of the car. He collected one of the bags Mycroft had left for them, carrying it in. He wandered to the toilets first, brushing his teeth and scrutinising the stubble on his face. The bag included a razer and shampoo, but he chose not to shave.

He paid for the shower, almost groaning in pleasure as the hot water touched his body. He watched as the timer ran down, washing his hair and his skin, feeling altogether more alive than he had since their journey had started.

He dressed quickly, keeping his head down as he walked back out to the car park. Sherlock was fast asleep again, a peaceful look on his face, his fingers curled in Greg’s coat. Greg regretted having to wake him, but he rubbed his shoulder until Sherlock looked at him.

Sherlock got out of the car without a word, shuffling into the service station.

Greg listened to the radio while he waited, studying the map and trying to work out the best route to Portsmouth. He’d have to find a long way around, and plan some stops in a remote location. Mycroft had left notes for a proposed route and Greg planned to follow most of it.

Greg picked up his coat, retrieving the pot with the pills in it. He tucked it into his jacket pocket. This was it then, he supposed. It could well be his last full day alive. He intended to make the most of it.

He looked up as Sherlock joined him, his hair damp and clinging to his face. He’d shaved away the traces of stubble, and although he had dark circles under his ice-blue eyes, he looked awake and ready to go.

“You look better,” Greg said as he pulled out of the car park.

“So do you,” Sherlock replied, watching him. “Do you need me to direct you?”

“No, I’ve got it, cheers. So, I’m just going to take the long way round.”

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll drive for a while, then we can sit and cook some breakfast. We’ve hardly eaten in days.”

“I know.”

Greg nodded. “Then I’ll drive again for a couple of hours. It should only take about two hours from where we camped, but I’m going to go north before going south again. If anything, the route will be confusing if anyone’s watching us.”

“That’s fine.”

“We’ll camp about 40 minutes away from Portsmouth. Mycroft suggested somewhere for us to go. To be honest, Sherlock, we might as well spend today resting a bit. Try and… I dunno. Psych ourselves up.”

“I don’t need to,” Sherlock murmured. “Not after what he did to Janine.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, frowning. “How you holding up?”

“I just want to end it. And then… What will you do? If we all get through this?”

“What will I do?” Greg echoed. “How’d you mean?”

“Will you go on holiday? Celebrate?”

“Oh. I dunno. Feels a bit like tempting fate to worry about how I’m going to react. Sleep for a week, probably.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel at the prospect of it all. “I’m not… I’m not planning much beyond getting us there.”

“No,” Sherlock said softly, turning to gaze out of the window. “No, neither am I.”

Greg bit his lip. “We should try to think happy thoughts. We’re just going to end up miserable if we keep like this.”

“What do we have for breakfast?”

“Some bread and jam. Fruit. Better than we’ve had for the past few days.”

“I forget to eat,” Sherlock said. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very useful on this trip.”

Greg glanced at him, frowning. “It’s fine, Sherlock. That’s what I came along for, yeah? To make sure you looked after yourself.”

“You need to look after yourself too.”

“I am. That’s why we’ll have a proper breakfast this morning.”

Their breakfast began at 8am, and they sat in the warmth of the car, pushing the chairs back as far as they could go so they could stretch their legs out. Sherlock got some colour back onto his pale cheeks, and it only occurred to Greg then that the stress had taken a toll on both of them.

He sat outside to boil some water and made them each a much-needed cup of tea. And then they were off again, Greg taking twists and turns into an assortment of towns and villages, some picturesque, others void of character. He began to call it their whistle-stop tour of the country, and Sherlock visibly brightened as the day wore on.

Sherlock sat with their food bag on his lap as they planned their lunch. “Ready Salted or Cheese and Onion?” he asked, holding the crisps out.

“Either.”

Sherlock handed him the Cheese and Onion crisps and then some fruit. Greg took a bite of his apple and he was distracted for a moment as he watched some cows in a field. When he next looked down at his lap, Sherlock had piled a variety of food into it. Greg frowned. “I’m not eating this lot. I’ll explode.”

“You need your energy,” Sherlock protested. “And you’ve missed out on your five a day.”

“Yeah, no,” Greg said with a smile, putting some of the fruit back in the bag. “Thanks for… well, caring though.”

Sherlock managed a smile, peeling a banana as he stared out of the window. “There’s a red kite,” he said, leaning forward in his chair.

“A what?”

“Bird,” Sherlock said, pointing. “Just above those trees. They scavenge for carrion. You can recognise it from the forked tail.”

Greg frowned. “All I can see are sodding pigeons.”

Sherlock laughed. “Do you see the gap in the trees there? Look up.”

Greg followed the line with his eyes until he finally caught sight of the bird, soaring and hovering above them. He smiled as he settled back in his chair, watching it. “It’s called a red kite?” he asked.

“Yeah. They were being reintroduced across the country a few years ago. Now there’s lots of breeding pairs.”

“I’ve never seen one before,” Greg admitted, staring at it. “Have you?”

“Only once.”

“Do you know what else I’ve not done?” Greg asked, frowning. “I’ve never been into St Paul’s Cathedral. I’ve lived in London all my life, and the closest I’ve been is walking past it. And every time, I think, ‘I’ll go in and visit that’. And I never do.”

“I’ve never been on a boat on the Thames,” Sherlock said. “I like boats and being by the water and yet… I’ve never had a reason to do it.”

Greg frowned. “Yeah, I’ve never done that either.” He watched as the red kite dived out of sight behind the trees. “So… so I’ll do that,” he said. “To answer your question. If we all get through this, then I’ll get you a ticket to go on a boat on the Thames.”

“No.”

Greg swallowed, “Oh, okay then.”

“No, I mean. You should come too.”

Greg glanced at him and smiled. “Alright then. We’ll get a boat.”

Sherlock smiled back and they ate their lunch in silence, admiring the views. They drove for another few hours, until they finally reached the spot Mycroft suggested. They worked together to put the tent up, wrapping up in their coats as they crouched down to get a fire going.

The sun had just begun to set, and Greg stared up at the sky, mesmerised by the oranges and blues. He glanced to his left, and found Sherlock doing just the same. But his eyes looked sad, and Greg couldn’t bear to watch him for long. He gave the fire a prod with a stick and got up to collect some beer. He put them outside the car, and the cool air ensured they were chilled enough to satisfy him.

“Mycroft got us beers?” Sherlock asked, staring at him.

Greg shrugged. “Maybe it’s our last night on earth. I suppose he wanted to give us a good send off.”

Sherlock nodded and picked up a can of his own, flicking open the tab. He pulled a face after his first sip, but continued to drink it anyway. They had an early dinner, using the car headlights to see. Sherlock warmed his hands by the fire, and they soon had several cans strewn around the ground, while Greg lit a cigarette. Sherlock plucked it out of his fingers before he could even take a drag.

“Git,” Greg muttered, be he couldn’t hide the fond smile on his face. Sherlock hummed and inhaled before passing it back. “What couldn’t you live without?” Greg asked. “Your fancy wardrobe or your violin?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock muttered. “Violin. Cigarettes or alcohol?”

“Uh. Alcohol.”

“Why?”

“I just like the feeling of it.”

“Blocking things out?” Sherlock asked.

Greg shrugged. “Maybe. A bit. But it’s the only way anyone will ever get me on the dance floor at a party. And I like the taste of it.”

“I like the way it slows my head down,” Sherlock admitted. “But if I drank it a lot, I worry that I’d lose everything.”

“Your abilities?”

“Mmm. That seems stupid, I know, especially with my drug history.”

“Why did you prefer drugs to alcohol?” Greg asked.

“The drugs make everything even clearer. Enhance everything. The alcohol numbs it.”

Greg nodded, flicking the cigarette but into the fire. “I never tried anything, myself. I was offered cannabis a few times at uni but never saw the appeal.”

“I never bothered with it. I went straight for the hard stuff.”

“Do you regret it?” Greg asked.

“I.” Sherlock frowned, opening another beer. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

“Screw what I want to hear,” Greg said. “Like you’ve ever given a toss to what I want to hear. It’s what I like most about you. That you’re upfront and just… go at it.”

“I always thought you hated that.”

“Nah. Well.” Greg paused. “I wish you’d do a few more deductions in your head rather than spilling my deepest darkest secrets to all of our friends but…” Greg sipped his beer. “Except you didn’t. When me and Rebecca broke up, I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring, and I had a horrible tan line on my finger.”

“At Baskerville.”

“Yeah. Maybe you had bigger fish to fry than worry about me, but you never said anything. I always thought that was nice.”

“What was there to say?” Sherlock asked. “It was obvious to anyone with eyes.”

“Yeah, but John didn’t see it,” Greg replied. They both exchanged a grin, before tapping their cans together. “To John and the rest,” Greg said.

Sherlock smiled. “John and the rest.” They both had a long swig, Greg finishing his can and chucking it on the pile of empties. He leaned forward on his legs, watching the flickering of the flames, before throwing another few leaves and sticks onto it.

“Might go to bed,” Greg said after a while. “You alright out here?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll turn the car lights off. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Greg smiled at him and got up, stretching. He opened the tent and crawled in, kicking his shoes off. He changed into a t-shirt and stripped down to his boxers, folding his jumper up to use as a pillow. He watched as the car lights went out and closed his eyes as Sherlock joined him in the darkness of the tent moments later.

He just listened as Sherlock slid into his sleeping bag, shuffling around before throwing some of his own clothing onto the other side of the tent.

Greg’s ears were attuned to Sherlock’s breathing. He listened to him every time he moved, unable to make him out at all through the darkness.

“This could be the last night I ever go to sleep,” Sherlock said a while later, his voice soft. “I’ve had a lot of nights like this.”

“I haven’t,” Greg whispered, swallowing. “Never knew how close I was to being shot by Moriarty’s gunmen.”

“What would you do?” Sherlock asked. “If this was your last night on earth and you could have your perfect last night?”

“God. What a question,” Greg whispered, rolling onto his back and thinking. “Good food. Maybe a steak with chips and beer. And then I’d… I want to be in my bed with…” Greg swallowed, frowning. “With someone. As long as I wasn’t alone, you know? What about you?”

“That… that sounds nice, actually. But not the steak. I’d want… pasta in a cream sauce, with mushrooms and chicken. My violin. And then… I wouldn’t want to be alone either.”

“Who would you want?” Greg asked. “John? All your friends and family?”

“I’d want…” There was a long pause, and Greg wished for a few moments that he hadn’t asked. Then Sherlock spoke. “I’d want it to be someone who mattered,” he finished.

“Someone who mattered,” Greg repeated, his voice quiet.

“Yes. To me. And to… to whom I mattered.”

Greg rubbed his face, and he was sure they could both hear his heart, it was beating so fast all of a sudden. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Someone who mattered.” He frowned for a moment, and he didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the darkness, or the exhaustion that made him say it. But he spoke again after a minute. “I didn’t get the steak or the bed but I… I can’t think of anyone better to spend my last night with.”

There was a long, drawn-out silence, and Greg covered his face with his hands, his body suddenly clammy and hot as he waited for Sherlock to answer.

“No,” Sherlock said quietly after a while. “I can’t either.”

Greg swallowed and dropped his hand. He heard Sherlock sit up. “Are you going?” he asked, sitting up beside him.

“No, I.” Sherlock lay back down. “I’m not. Are you?”

“No.” Greg lay back down too, staring into the darkness. “I’m not… not going.”

“So we’ll… we’ll have our last night together then.”

Greg nodded. “So we will,” he said. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Do you… are you…” He frowned, not sure what he was going to say. “So, I just… Thanks for today. It’s been good.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then… night, Sherlock.”

“Right. Sleep.”

“Yeah.” But Greg couldn’t close his eyes, he could only stare up, suddenly so aware of Sherlock beside him. For Sherlock, this wouldn’t be his last night on earth, Greg would see to that. But for him, he knew it could be. His eyes stung, but he blinked the emotion back.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m. You know, I’m not so sure I am.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m not so sure I am either.”

Greg rolled onto his side, and without thinking, he reached out to Sherlock, his hand brushing against Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock didn’t react, only tensed beneath his touch. Greg began to hastily pull his arm back, but Sherlock grabbed his hand, holding it tightly between his cold fingers. Greg took a breath. “Last night on earth,” Greg whispered.

“I know,” came the reply, and then Sherlock was shuffling closer to him, until Greg could feel his breath against his cheek. “Did you…” Sherlock started. “Can we…”

Greg swallowed, hoping he understood what Sherlock was asking of him. “If you… I mean… do you want to?”

“To… well, yes, if you’re thinking what I am.”

“I don’t know if I am.”

Sherlock lifted Greg’s hand until it pressed against Sherlock’s jaw. Greg curled his hand around his cheek, rubbing his thumb against his cheekbone. He shuffled closer, and licked his lips. He closed the gap, expecting to meet soft lips with his own. Instead he only succeeded in finding Sherlock’s chin.

They both laughed and then Sherlock’s lips were on his, soft and hesitant. Greg’s breath caught. They didn’t move, hardly dared to. Then Greg began to lead the kiss, just pressing their mouths together, caressing Sherlock’s lips with his own.

His heart broke a little as he began to wonder if he could have had this before now. If things had been different, whether they could have had weeks or even years worth of kisses. He had to push those thoughts away before he broke.

Greg began to sit up and Sherlock went with him, his arms wrapping around Greg’s neck as they deepened the kiss. Greg felt Sherlock following his lead, copying the way he kissed his lips, the way he sucked and nibbled. Greg swiped his tongue out and was granted entry to Sherlock’s mouth. He dropped one hand onto Sherlock’s side and felt him tremble.

“Sherlock?” Greg whispered. “Is this… are you okay?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Do you want this?”

“Don’t you?” Sherlock asked, his voice so quiet.

“Oh I do,” Greg breathed out, and kissed him again in reassurance. “I just wanted to know if you do.”

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock whispered.

“Okay then.” And Greg kissed him again, full of tenderness. Sherlock was exploring Greg’s lips and mouth with his tongue, and Greg shuddered when their tongues touched. Sherlock’s hands dropped from his shoulders to the hem of his shirt.

“Can I?” Sherlock asked.

Greg nodded, and then realised Sherlock would hardly be able to see him in the dark. “Of course,” he said, lifting his arms up above his head.

Sherlock pulled his shirt up, dropping it down onto the sleeping bag. It was still cold in the tent, but Greg hardly noticed. That was until Sherlock’s hands came to rest on his chest and he hissed in surprise.

“Oh,” Sherlock exclaimed, letting go of him as though he’d been electrocuted. “What did I-”

“-No, no, no, it’s fine,” Greg said quickly. “Just. Your hands are bloody freezing.”

“Oh,” Sherlock laughed. Greg took hold of Sherlock’s hands, breathing hot air onto them before rubbing them between his own. He smiled, kissing him softly as he continued to warm Sherlock’s hands up. He placed them down on his own chest after a few minutes. “There,” Greg whispered. “All better.”

“Do you want…” Sherlock stopped and let go of Greg and Greg listened as Sherlock removed his own shirt, dropping it down. Greg reached for him, brushing his fingers down the soft skin of his chest. He flattened his hand over Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock was shaking under his touch.

“Hey,” Greg whispered. “Do you want to stop? We can just kiss.”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No, don’t stop.”

Greg nodded and drew him into a soft kiss, stroking his hands against Sherlock’s back. He found it not smooth as he expected, but covered in raised and rough areas. He didn’t question it, but deepened the kiss, keeping it slow and soft.

He lay down, bringing Sherlock down with him, until he was on top of him, their erections straining in their boxers. Greg explored Sherlock’s body with his fingertips, lifting his head and granting Sherlock access to his neck to kiss and lick.

He hooked his fingers in Sherlock’s boxers and felt him freeze. Greg stopped. “Sherlock,” he murmured. “Have you… done this before?”

“I.” Sherlock went silent.

Greg swallowed and lifted his hands to caress his cheek and stroke his hair. “It’s okay if you haven't,” he whispered.

“I know it’s not really,” Sherlock said. “But there just wasn’t… I mean, who would? With me?”

“I would,” Greg whispered. “If you want me to.”

“I do.”

Greg kissed him, holding Sherlock’s face in his hands. They kissed until he felt Sherlock begin to melt against him, making soft sounds in the back of his throat.

Sherlock’s hands found Greg’s boxers and Greg lifted his hips to help him pull them down. Moments later, Sherlock removed his own underwear, until they were lying with their cocks pressed together between their bodies.

Greg tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s soft hair and kissed him deep and slow, tasting him, losing himself in him. Sherlock moved his hips and Greg groaned, reaching down to take hold of both of their cocks.

“Oh God,” Sherlock cried out, burying his face in Greg’s neck. Greg stroked them both, rolling his hips, his own groan leaving his lips.

Sherlock’s hand joined his, but squeezed a little too hard. Greg winced. “Bit looser,” he whispered.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Greg groaned and kissed him. “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered. It took a few minutes of fumbling and one incident of banged heads, but soon they found a rhythm together, sharing desperate breaths and hard and wet kisses.

And all too soon Greg was arching up, squeezing his eyes shut as he came over their joined hands and his stomach. He pumped Sherlock’s cock twice more, and he let out the most beautiful moan Greg had ever heard, and let go too.

Greg used his clean hand to hold the back of Sherlock’s head, anchoring him to his chest as he fought to get his breath back.

“Oh God, oh God,” Sherlock was whispering, trembling against him.

“Fuck, I know,” Greg said quietly, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. He had to squeeze his eyes shut. He didn’t want to fall asleep. He didn’t want to have to wake up and face tomorrow, knowing he was likely to lose all of this before he’d even had a chance to catch his breath.

Sherlock moved after a few minutes and cleaned himself up, before handing something to Greg to do the same. He wiped his stomach and his hand before he realised what had happened. “Uch, Sherlock!” he exclaimed. “Did you just use my jumper to wipe our come off?”

There was silence and then Sherlock burst out laughing.

“I was using that as a pillow!” Greg moaned. But he laughed despite himself, leaning forward to toss it out of the tent. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, fumbling around for something else to use for a pillow . He eventually found his t-shirt, and put that down under his head instead. “Bastard,” he muttered affectionately.

Their laughing died down and soon Sherlock rested against him, his nose rubbing against Greg’s arm. “Goodnight,” he whispered.

“Night, Sherlock,” Greg said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Have only sweet dreams.”

Sherlock hummed in response. In minutes, Greg was fast asleep.


	5. MOD Base

The sun was already out when Greg woke up. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock still fast asleep, his hand curled around Greg’s arm, his hair falling a little in front of his eyes. Greg smiled to himself, gazing at his relaxed expression. He wondered how he’d never noticed before, just how gorgeous he was with those cheekbones and full mouth.

He wondered how he’d never considered Sherlock in this way before. And that now he had, it made perfect sense. He wondered whether he’d locked it all away, pretending not to feel anything but mild fondness for him. Now though, he thought his feelings lay deeper than he wanted them to.

He couldn’t bear to move. He wanted to remain there, lying beside him all day. He wanted to kiss him again, and hold him and show him all the ways he could make Sherlock feel wonderful.

But he couldn’t. Soon, they would be moving again. And then…

He didn’t know what happened then. All he imagined was a full stop, a black tunnel, the end of days, one way or another.

He glanced down to where the sleeping bag rested down around Sherlock’s back. There were scars on his skin. Burns and cuts and goodness knows what else.

Greg didn’t know what had happened, but he could guess enough that it had taken place during those two years when Sherlock had been away. He’d kill Moriarty for what he’d done to him. For all the pain he’d inflicted on Sherlock, on everyone else. But not any more. Sherlock wouldn’t be hurt any more. Sherlock could go back out into the world, safe. Greg would give him that.

He reached over, brushing the backs of his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, and he smiled for just a moment, before he frowned. “We should have left hours ago,” he murmured.

Greg nodded. “I know.” He dropped his hand and sat up.

Sherlock reached for him and squeezed his shoulder. “We just… need to leave.”

“Yeah,” Greg said softly, beginning to collect his clothes, his limbs feeling heavy. He pulled his coat on and went outside, finding some water to boil. By the time Sherlock was dressed, Greg had made them a cup of tea each and they sat in the car in silence, drinking it.

And then they drove, for the final part of their long journey. Greg had run out of things to say. It appeared Sherlock had too, as he stared out of the window. Greg had never felt so miserable, and so helpless. They were entering the Colosseum, to launch a fight he wasn’t sure they could win.

He parked outside of a shopping centre. He got out of the car and pocketed his phone and checked he had the little pill pot in his pocket. He pocketed one of the guns and gave the other to Sherlock. They exchanged a look, but no words came out. They’d done so much talking and now… they had nothing to say. Nothing to make it easier, nothing to offer comfort.

So they began to walk beside each other, every step more in time than they had been the whole journey. They made their way into more fields. Every step filled Greg with more fear and dread. He gripped the gun in his pocket, but he saw nothing but grass and trees in front of them.

Sherlock spotted what they were looking for. It was a manhole. Nothing but a manhole. They were lucky to have seen it at all. Sherlock reached for his phone and typed a quick message, while Greg looked around, assessing their surroundings. There was a clunking sound, and then the manhole was being pushed aside. A woman with greying hair popped her head out and nodded to them. “Mr Holmes, Mr Lestrade. Follow me.” And then she began her descent back down the ladder.

Sherlock insisted that Greg went down first, and so he did, his heart beating wildly with every step. The tunnel was dimly lit, and it took several minutes before he reached the bottom. He glanced around, to where he could only assume would eventually be his coffin. He watched as Sherlock managed the final few steps of the ladder and then jumped off at the bottom. The woman went back up to close the manhole.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked.

Greg nodded. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

“Just keep walking,” the woman called down to them. “You can’t get lost.”

Sherlock spun around and took off down the tunnel. Greg followed, frowning as he looked around at the damp brick walls. It was a good 10 minutes going downhill until they reached a large room with two computers and various technology Greg didn’t recognise. Sherlock sat down at one of the chairs, studying it all.

Greg could only watch him. He needed to get him a drink, and put the pills in it. It would knock Sherlock out and then he’d be safe. Then he would be safe.

Greg… Greg probably wouldn’t be. But better to have shared that one night with Sherlock than never to have known how it could be.

Sherlock glanced at him, and they caught one another’s eyes. “You should go now,” he murmured. “I’ve got this.”

Greg shook his head. “Nope. I’m here for the whole thing.”

“You should leave.”

“Never gonna happen.”

The woman joined them then. “I’m Dr Rhodes,” she said. “My job… my job is to tell you what you need to know, and then I’m going.”

“There’s a bomb down here, correct?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve already put in all the settings. All you have to do is choose how long you need to escape and input the execution code. It’s all there, on your screen. It’s quite self-explanatory.”

“How long does it take to escape?” Sherlock asked.

“The quickest anyone’s practised it is three minutes, not out the way you came in. You keep going through this tunnel.”

“Three minutes,” Sherlock echoed. “And the code?”

“It’s 3-4-7-8.”

“3-4-7-8,” Greg whispered, frowning. “How fit and healthy was the person who did it in three minutes?”

“He was fit. And he practised it a few times.”

“I’ll do it,” Sherlock said. “Lestrade, you should leave with Dr Rhodes.”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“We won’t have time to get out of here together.”

“I am not letting you die,” Greg snapped at him.

Sherlock stood up, slamming his hand against the desk. “I am not giving you a choice. Moriarty is my responsibility.”

“Shut up, Sherlock! I am not letting you die, do you understand me? There are people out there who need-”

“-They need you-”

“-You,” Greg finished, pointing at him. “They need you to be there for them. John and Mrs Hudson. They need you. Just you.”

“But-”

“-No buts, Sherlock. I’ve made my mind up and you are not dying for me or anyone. I’m… fine with that.”

Sherlock stared at him, slumping down in his chair. “We’ll practice it,” he said, glaring. “We’ll go over the route out of here.”

“Yes, we will,” Greg agreed.

“And then we’ll debate this again.”

Greg shook his head. “No debates. No arguments.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Dr Rhodes said, glancing between them. “Good luck.” She forced a smile at them both and left them alone.

They both stared across at each other. “I’m making a tea,” Greg muttered, going over to the sink. He filled the kettle up and turned it on. He glanced over his shoulder to where Sherlock was on the computer, checking out the footage from the CCTV cameras surrounding the manhole.

Greg slid the pot out of his jacket pocket. He filled one mug with water and then dropped the pills inside, stirring in some sugar and the teabag. He added the milk to their drinks and then carried Sherlock’s cup over.

Sherlock grunted a thanks. Greg sat in the other chair, sipping his tea, waiting for Sherlock to drink his own. Sherlock had to drink it. He had to drink it, or… and then Sherlock lifted his mug to his lips and had a sip. Sherlock turned to him and frowned for a moment and Greg was almost certain he’d been rumbled. Instead, Sherlock wheeled his chair over to Greg.

They stared at each other for a moment, Greg hardly daring to breathe. Then Sherlock reached up and stroked Greg’s cheek with the backs of his fingers before leaning forward, capturing Greg’s lips in a kiss. Greg gasped, gripping onto his mug, trying not to spill its contents. Sherlock’s hand took hold of the handle to steady it, and Greg lost himself in the kiss.

It was dizzying. Sherlock was kissing him so tenderly that Greg could almost imagine there was some genuine devotion hiding in there somewhere. Inside, everything hurt. The last kiss. The last words between them. It was all coming up, hurtling towards them, unstoppable.

They broke apart and Sherlock kept his hand on Greg’s cheek. “We can’t both die here,” he said softly, lifting his mug to his lips and drinking.

Greg nodded. “I know,” he replied, watching him. So soon, they were going to be separated, but it was fine, because Sherlock would be alive.

“We could… flip a coin.”

Greg snorted. “No.”

“Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Nope. No, I’m not deciding our life on the basis of rock, paper, scissors.”

“We may not die,” Sherlock pointed out. “We have a gun. We can shoot him then leave, without a rush.”

Greg nodded. “Or he’ll know the plan and he’d rather die and take one of us down with him.”

“It needs to be me.”

Greg shook his head. “Sherlock. I’m not negotiating over which one of us doesn’t get out this building alive. I’m sending you home, to your family. Because you have one. And… and I don’t.” Greg swallowed, taking a long sip of his tea. “I don’t.”

“You have all of them. They’re as much yours as they are mine.”

“No, they’re not,” Greg said softly, holding his eyes. “We’re all yours, Sherlock. You’re the one who connects us, do you see that? They need you. Not me. And I… I don’t think I want to walk out of here, knowing I might not see you again. I’ve lost you once and I. I won’t do it again.”

“And what about me?” Sherlock whispered.

“You’ll be fine, Sherlock. I know you will.”

They both stared down at the mugs, drinking in silence. They’d said so much, the past few days. They’d said more than they ever had before, shared everything, shared glimpses of a future they weren’t likely to enjoy. And now the words were gone.

Greg sat back in his chair, staring down into his empty cup. He looked back into Sherlock’s eyes and forced a smile. “So. I think you should go now.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t think I will.”

Greg rolled his eyes and moved to stand up, but he collapsed back down into his chair. His arms felt heavy, he could barely lift… No.

“Sherlock,” he growled. “What did you do?”

“I put the drugs Mycroft gave you in your tea.”

Greg frowned. “No. No, you didn’t I…”

“Yes, you put mints in my tea,” Sherlock said with a satisfied smile. “I think I did well not to spit it out. It wasn’t a pleasant-”

“-You… You kissed me so you could drug me…”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Pot, kettle…”

“You fucking bastard.”

Sherlock took Greg’s mug from him before he could drop it on the floor. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on his legs. “Did you think I would let you die for me?” Sherlock asked, his voice low. “I have done nothing but hurt you, don’t you see that? They don’t need me. They’re better and safer without me.”

“Shut up,” Greg whispered. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s already done,” Sherlock said, his voice almost tender. “Just let it go and fall asleep.”

Greg tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t muster the energy. His whole body was betraying him. “I don’t want…”

“Shh,” Sherlock said, reaching out and touching Greg’s lips with his index finger.

“I don’t want to live without you,” Greg whispered, his words beginning to slur. “I don’t…”

“Don’t say it,” Sherlock whispered, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. He stood up and cupped Greg’s cheek, kissing him lightly. It took all of Greg’s energy to move his lips a little so he could return it. “Look after them for me,” Sherlock whispered. “Just do that for me.”

Greg’s bottom lip trembled. He couldn’t say anything. He was far, far too exhausted to say a word. He just sat, staring at Sherlock, forcing his eyes to stay open. Every time he blinked he had to work to open them again. He wanted to imprint Sherlock’s face on his retinas. He never wanted to be without him. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t even find the energy to cry. He just stared at Sherlock’s wonderful, beautiful face and into his crystal blue eyes. And the pain in them… God, nothing on earth had ever hurt so much as this.

He kept opening his eyes for one last look. Every glance could be the final one and…

And then he closed his eyes and he was asleep. 


	6. Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this fic sort of happened and ran away with me, but it's been fun! Thanks to everyone who has read it and commented and kudos-ed it.

He dreamed of fields. He dreamed of trees being set on fire, the leaves burning, until not even a shell was left behind. He dreamed of Moriarty. He dreamed of him laughing, of him throwing Sherlock from Bart’s. He dreamed of falling. Of never finding a place to land. He dreamed of Sherlock, whispering to him, but his words were all in a foreign language, and Greg didn’t know what he was saying.

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times. The brightly-lit room had a sterile smell, and it took him a few moments to realise he was lying on his back in a hospital bed. He started to sit up and coughed, the world spinning around him.

“Greg. Thank God.”

Greg frowned and rubbed his eyes. John was at his side with a glass of water. Greg took hold of it with a shaking hand, but his eyes began to dart around, until they settled on a bed on the other side of the room. Sherlock was on his back, his face bruised, his arm in a sling. “Sherlock,” he whispered, pulling back the covers.

“He’s in a coma,” John said, but Greg hardly heard him. He stood up, and his legs gave way underneath him. He shouted out as he fell to the floor, grabbing hold of the bed.

“The drugs are only just wearing off,” John said. “You need to be in bed.”

“I need to be with him,” Greg hissed, pulling himself up to his feet. John wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him up and then guided him to the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “What happened?” Greg asked as he sunk into it, closing his eyes for a few moments, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

“He got caught in some of the blast. Broken arm, collarbone and ribs. And a head injury.”

Greg swallowed. “Head injury,” he whispered, staring at him. “How bad?”

“We won’t know for a while,” John murmured. “You’ve been out for 24 hours.”

Greg turned to stare at him. “I’ve what?” he asked.

“They were some heavy-duty drugs.”

“24 hours?” Greg repeated in disbelief. He shook his head and turned his attention back to Sherlock. “How’s everyone else?” he asked.

“They’re fine.”

Greg nodded, longing to reach out and take Sherlock’s hand, but he was afraid the action would be misconstrued by John somehow. He was afraid Sherlock would wish he hadn’t done it, when (if) he woke up and found out what had taken place. Greg had no idea if what had happened between them was a product of circumstance or something more. Something deeper.

John was watching him with a concerned expression. “I should tell a doctor you’re up.”

Greg just nodded, gazing at Sherlock’s bruised face instead. He reached out and stroked Sherlock’s forearm anyway. “Did he do it?” Greg asked, it only just occurring to him what had got them into this mess. “Kill… whoever?”

John nodded. “Yeah, he did. We’re in Portsmouth still, by the way. Mycroft pulled a lot of strings to get you a room together.”

“Good of him,” Greg murmured.

“I’ll uh… get a doctor.”

Greg nodded distractedly. He waited until John left the room before stroking Sherlock’s fingers, taking his hand in his. He didn’t know what to say or what to do. The past few days felt like a blur, or almost as though they hadn’t happened at all. His limbs felt heavy, and it took all his energy not to just rest his head on the bed beside Sherlock and fall asleep there.

He didn’t turn around as John came back with a doctor, but he dropped Sherlock’s hand. “You should eat something,” the doctor was saying to him, and he promised a nurse would be round with some food soon. Greg hardly listened. Sherlock was his only focus.

The food came, but it lay beside the other bed getting cold while Greg kept a watch over Sherlock, staring at the rise and fall of his chest. “You should eat,” John said. “He’d want you to eat.”

“You don’t know what he wants,” Greg snapped. “Nobody ever bloody knows what Sherlock Holmes…” He frowned at himself and looked up. “John, I’m sorry. I’m.”

“You’re exhausted.”

Greg sighed and nodded. He gave Sherlock’s hand a quick squeeze and stood up. “I suppose they’ll be kicking me out of here now I’m awake,” he said. “They don’t let people stay.”

“It’s fine,” John said. “Private hospital and Mycroft’s paying God knows how much for it. Look, there’s a curtain here for privacy. And to be honest, mate, I don’t think you’re fit to be out yet anyway.”

Greg frowned. “What?”

“You look… well, no offence, but you look like shit. If I were in charge of your treatment, I’d keep you in for observation. Go and eat.”

“I can’t,” Greg muttered.

John frowned at him. “Is there anything you fancy at all?”

“No.”

“Cake? Chocolate? Fruit?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be an idiot. He’s going to need us all when he’s awake and it’ll be better if you’re healthy.”

“Why?” Greg asked, looking at him. “Why will he need us?”

John sighed, staring at him sympathetically. “We don’t know what sort of damage has been done. We won’t know for a while.”

“His head,” Greg whispered, staring down at the huge bruise on his temple.

John nodded. He patted Greg on the shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, I need to get back to Mary and the baby. But I’m here, alright? I won’t leave Portsmouth until Sherlock does.”

“The baby?” Greg asked. “Oh she…”

“Yeah. Girl,” John said with a faint smile.

“Congratulations.”

John smiled at him. He picked up a glass of water and a banana from the tray and handed them to Greg. “Drink. Eat. Sleep. Promise?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. He sat down beside the bed again and waited for John to leave. Then he took hold of Sherlock’s hand again, watching him and waiting.

Everyone came by. Molly came, and hugged Greg tightly for five minutes while they stood in silence. She sat and she talked and told Greg everything that had happened while they’d been in the safehouse. She talked to Sherlock as though he were awake, and for the life of him, Greg didn’t know how she did it.

“He might be able to hear us,” Molly said.

Greg only nodded. He liked to think he could too. But he wasn’t sure what to say to him. Everything was a jumble in his head. He was furious that Sherlock was the one in a coma and not him. He was confused about the kisses and everything that had happened between them. He was scared Sherlock might wake up and wouldn’t want a repeat of it all. He was terrified he had fallen head over heels for Sherlock anyway.

He was utterly petrified Sherlock would never wake up and he wouldn’t know either way.

Mycroft joined him on the third day, taking a seat and frowning at him. “You should find a hotel to stay in,” he said. “You look appalling.”

“I’m not going,” Greg said and it was something he’d repeated a lot in the past few days to everyone. “Not until he’s awake.”

“I am sorry,” Mycroft murmured. “That you have to go through all of this.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said.

“If I’d have known, I’d never have let you go with him.”

Greg blinked and turned to look at him. “Known what?” he asked.

“The depth of Sherlock’s feelings for you.”

Greg shook his head, returning to focusing on Sherlock. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “I don’t care what you think Sherlock felt or feels or what I feel. It’s done.”

“Very well,” Mycroft muttered, standing up. “I will find you a hotel just a few doors away.”

“If he wakes up… if he wakes up and no one’s here…” Greg shook his head. “Someone has to be here.”

“We’ll take shifts,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “Then I’ll take the first,” he replied. He waited until Mycroft left before stroking Sherlock’s fingers.

Sherlock woke the next day. His eyes fluttered open and Greg was pouring himself a glass of water at the time. He dropped it on the floor, the glass smashing, when he saw Sherlock move. Greg was at his bedside in moments. Sherlock’s eyes were flicking around the room in confusion, distress etched into his features.

“Shh,” Greg soothed, stroking his hair back, tears of relief threatening in his eyes. “I’m here, look at me.” He swallowed, biting down hard on his lip. Sherlock just stared at him before sleep overtook him again.

It happened twice more over the following days. Sherlock woke, looked bewildered and distressed, and fell asleep again. Greg finally took up the offer of a hotel, but he was by Sherlock’s side all day, until visiting hours were over.

Sherlock never woke up while anyone else was there. Molly suggested he liked Greg’s voice, but Greg never spoke to him while they were alone together. He just held his hand and watched him, full of hope that the next time he may be awake for longer.

He spent the morning on the sixth day with Mrs Hudson. She’d brought some cake and commented how Greg finally seemed to be getting some colour in his cheeks. He managed a smile, and it felt so unnatural on his face that he wondered when the last time he’d done it was.

She left and Greg sighed. “God, please wake up,” he whispered to Sherlock. He swallowed and dropped his head down on the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He dreamed of fields. Of never-ending fields, as though every building in the country had been bulldozed and taken over by grass and trees. He dreamed of walking with Sherlock. He dreamed of Sherlock’s hand in his as his thumb rubbed against Greg’s. He dreamed of Sherlock’s voice, soft and gentle, a tone Greg had never heard until they spent those days together in the tent.

“Lestrade,” the whisper came, and it was a beautiful sound, the only voice Greg wanted to hear.

He hummed and opened his eyes, licking his lips and sitting up. His breath caught. Sherlock was looking at him through half-lidded eyes. “Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered again.

Greg couldn’t hardly breathe. He just nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his mouth dry. “Do you… are you…”

“Bit of pain,” Sherlock muttered. “Throat is…”

“Dry?” Sherlock nodded and Greg fetched him a glass of water with a straw, holding it for him so he could have a few sips. “I’ll get a doctor.”

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “Stay.”

Greg nodded and sat down beside him. “What do you remember?” he asked, watching him. Sherlock remembered his name, which was one small blessing.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t. It’s… a blur.”

“All of it?”

“I-I don’t…” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s almost there,” he said. “I can almost…”

“It’s okay,” Greg said gently. “You don’t need to.”

Sherlock nodded. “Are you okay?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s been a week since it happened,” he added.

“What happened?”

“We went to the MOD base. And you drugged me. And… I dunno what happened after that.”

Sherlock nodded. “I can’t… it’s not there. None of it. I remember Mycroft’s car in the field… I remember us leaving and walking and you talking…” He frowned. “And then…”

Greg swallowed and felt his heart sink. Sherlock didn’t remember. Everything from their days together just… just gone. “Just go to sleep,” he whispered. Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes.

Greg left the room and went to the men’s toilets. He slammed his hand against the wall and he sobbed and he cursed for the one night together than only he remembered. That no one but he would ever understand what they’d gone through. The strides they’d made together. Their joint understanding. And how perfect it felt to have Sherlock’s lips on his.

He couldn’t bring himself to see Sherlock the next day. He got a train back to London. All he heard was that Sherlock was being moved to a hospital in London. John invited Greg to see him. Greg said no and went to work. He avoided Sherlock for 48 hours until he couldn’t bear it anymore.

He visited him in the hospital, taking some chrysanthemums along with him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows when he saw them. “I’d have thought you of all people would know better than to bring me flowers.” Sherlock glanced at the windowsill. “There’s far too many already.”

Greg shrugged and put them in a vase. “It’s what people do, obviously, or you wouldn’t have so many.” He sat down beside the bed. “How you holding up?” he asked.

Sherlock glanced at down at his left arm, still in a sling. “Well, this is useless for the moment. But I’m fine. I’ll be out tomorrow, thank goodness. Apart from some short-term memory loss, I seem mostly unscathed. But I’ll know more when I’m able to work.”

Greg nodded. “That seems good though.”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned. “So, it appears from my conversations with John, Mycroft, Mary, Molly and Mrs Hudson that you’re the only one who can tell me about what happened.”

“Oh,” Greg said, his chest clenching. “Is that… something you’d like to know?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, I’ve been sat here for six hours with nothing but soap operas and DIY programmes for entertainment. Go on.”

Greg sighed. “Right. Well, you know we went for the walk to the MOD base?”

“Mmm. Mycroft explained about the MOD base, and what probably happened there. I drugged you because you were going to drug me.”

“Yeah, that happened.”

“And what else?”

Greg shrugged. “We. We got a tent and supplies and we walked a lot and had a fire and food. We drove and chatted about… red kites and bucket-list stuff. We slept and mostly we walked.”

Sherlock nodded. “And that’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, taking a sip from his water. “Ah. Right. Okay then.”

Greg leaned forward, hardly daring to hope Sherlock may remember something, that it wouldn’t all be gone. “Why?”

“Nothing.”

“No, go on. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I just. When I look at you… I thought that… It’s nothing.”

“Sherlock?” Greg prompted.

Sherlock turned to him, wetting his lips. “I dreamt. I dreamt that you promised to take me on the Thames on a boat. Only it felt less like a dream and more as though it was something that did happen.”

“I did do that,” Greg murmured. “Do you remember anything else?”

“No. No, I don’t. I just… I didn’t understand why you’d make that offer.”

“Neither of us had done it before,” Greg explained. “We just wanted to do it if we got out of this whole thing alive.”

“And we are alive. So, will you?” Sherlock asked.

Greg managed a smile and nodded. “As soon as you’re ready,” he said.

“Tomorrow then,” Sherlock said. “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

When tomorrow came, Greg went with Sherlock to Greenwich, helping him onto the boat. Sherlock took a seat on the deck, ignoring the cold, and Greg sat down beside him. They got spray in their faces, and wind through their hair. They hardly said a word, just watched the ripples in the water as they went from stop to stop.

“I think we’re all safe now,” Sherlock said after a while.

Greg glanced at him. “I hope so.”

“When Moriarty threatened your life the first time, I didn’t understand it. I thought… I thought it should have been Molly.”

Greg stared down at his knees. He didn’t have the heart to tell Sherlock that he’d heard this all before. That it had hurt the first time. That it was going to absolutely destroy him this time, hearing how unimportant he had been.

“I was… confused,” Sherlock continued. “I travelled for a year, and I couldn’t unravel it. Why you? Why did Moriarty choose you? And then one day, I was stood by a lake, and there was a kingfisher. And it reminded me of the first case we ever solved together. Do you remember? The birdwatcher.”

Greg nodded. “Oh yeah. Yeah, I remember.”

“It made me think of you again, and I… I realised that Moriarty chose you because he realised that you mattered to me. And not only did you matter, you mattered in ways no one else ever had.”

“Sherlock?” Greg asked, turning to him, frowning. “What are you-”

“-Hang on. Don’t speak. I understand, from conversations with Mycroft, that you were prepared to die to save me. I also understand I had what resembled a love bite on my neck, and although I have absolutely no memory of how it got there, I can only assume it came from you.” Greg went to speak, but Sherlock just continued at lightening pace.

“Which leads me to assume that I told you I loved you, and now I don’t remember saying it. So, I’m saying it again, in the hope that you’ll respond positively in some way and you’ll… do whatever it was you did all over again. Preferably a number of times. I realise of course that this isn’t as private as a tent, and I hope that we can get off this boat in a moment and you’ll drive us to your flat. I know the sling is a bit in the way but-”

“-Sherlock, shut up.”

Sherlock turned to him, biting his bottom lip. “Right,” he muttered. “Your turn.”

Greg swallowed. “We thought we were gonna die,” he whispered. “And we kissed and we… yeah, we did some stuff together.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry I don’t remember that.”

“It was good,” Greg whispered, reaching out to him and touching his cheek. “But you didn’t say… what you just said.”

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well. That was… What I mean to say was…” But Greg cut him off with a kiss. There was nothing earth-shattering about it, the bells didn’t chime, the world didn’t stop. But nothing had ever felt more right. When they broke apart, they were both smiling.

“For the record,” Sherlock said. “I prefer that when we kiss, it’s not when we’re about to die. It seems very… over-dramatic.”

“And you never do over-dramatic,” Greg said with a wry grin.

Sherlock smiled and kissed him, almost shyly, again. “Why did you kiss me?” he asked.

Greg paused for a moment, staring out over the Thames and then back at Sherlock. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “I don’t want to live without you,” he whispered. “Not today, or ever.”

“Do you…” Sherlock began, before trailing off.

Greg swallowed and nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I love you too.” And then he kissed him, and whether this was one of a few kisses or the very first, it hardly mattered. He helped Sherlock off the boat, and they drove through London. He'd never been so grateful to be back in the busy city, with cars and people and noise. And Sherlock. He glanced over at Sherlock who rolled his eyes at the soppy look on Greg's face.

Greg just grinned, content.


End file.
